


The Beauchamp Chronicles

by notevenjokingfic



Category: Outlander, Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-08-23 17:02:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20246263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notevenjokingfic/pseuds/notevenjokingfic
Summary: Dr. Claire Beauchamp is on her way to becoming a renowned archaeologist, just like her Uncle Lamb before her.  When she makes an amazing discovery on Culloden Moor, Claire descends into an obsession that worries everyone around her.  Will she succumb to madness? Or to her obsession?Inspired by The Frankenstein Chronicles.





	1. The Find

**Author's Note:**

> http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/wales/444613.stm The article that helped solidify this story in my mind, and give it a jumping off point.

_“Can I keep it?” She looked up longingly at her Uncle Lamb, turning the fragile gold ring around and around with her fingers._

_“No, Claire, we’ve talked about this,” he sighed. _

_“But I found it,” she muttered, petulant._

_“Claire,” Uncle Lamb was patient. “Whatever we find on a dig belongs to the people of this culture. It’s not ours to take. What is archaeology again?”_

_“The study of ancient and recent human past through material remains,” she repeated mechanically. “It is a subfield of anthropology, the study of all human culture.”_

_“Exactly. Very good, Girl.” Uncle Lamb smiled. “Find a culture that interests you, Claire. Study it. Learn from it.”_

She stood squinting off into the distance. 

Scotland. 

The white capped mountains sat starkly against a bright sky as the wind whipped her hair around her face. Fumbling with the elastic on her wrist she deftly caught the curls that danced around her head, twisted them together and anchored them into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. 

Dressed in layers, wearing tall rubber boots, she silently cursed the bog that was her new site. 

She’d done her research, pored over historical maps and geological studies. She’d read about the great battle of Culloden, the smaller skirmishes on the periphery of the site. Finally, after two years of filing requests, paperwork, endless meetings, passionate dissertations, she had secured an area to excavate. 

Dr. Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp was an archaeologist, a damn good one. She was the protégé and heir apparent of one Dr. Quentin Lambert Beauchamp. Many in her field of study felt that the student had finally surpassed the master.   
An expert in Viking Culture and Artifacts, Dr. Beauchamp had been all over the world, in Universities, major Institutes, and Museums to talk about her finds. Most recently she was the subject of a BBC Documentary after finding some 9th Century coins and small lead weights that were used as currency among Viking traders in Wales. 

Many in her field thought her ridiculous for digging in Wales. Evidence suggested Vikings didn’t travel that far, and if they did, they weren’t of particular interest as there were too few of them. But not only did Dr. Claire Beauchamp find evidence of Vikings, she found actual Vikings.

Bones. Skeletons. Five of them, in fact. 

As she worked to assemble the pieces to tell a story, she revealed the bodies of Viking warriors, buried in what must have been an open grave, along with a small Thor’s hammer and a boar’s tusk. The skeletons showed severe injuries on their skulls and spines indicating a bloody and violent battle. 

That Find three years ago put her on the map. It was her Coming of Age in a male dominated profession.

Since that dig, Claire could now get the funding she needed from whatever University she wanted. Which was how she ended up in this bog, working for The University of the Highlands and Islands. The University was neither notable, nor distinguished, but it was dedicated to the study of Archaeology, and she liked that. The Government of Scotland’s restrictions were numerous, but that was fine, too. Culloden was sacred to them, so her access was strictly in the area surrounding the main battlefield. She respected that. All she wanted was to dig. She hoped to find evidence that the Viking craftsmanship continued through the ages. She was interested in the progression of their weaponry, whether the old traditions held, if any weapons had been passed down and for how many generations back, how deep their ties were to Scotland. Culloden was her hope of stepping up one more rung on the ladder. 

She watched as the students under her care marked a grid away from the battle proper. Willie was studious and serious, but clumsy and awkward. She wasn’t sure yet whether he would be a help or a hindrance. 

That question was answered quickly. Hindrance.

As she watched he lost his balance in the watery ground, fell deeply and solidly into the grid. He threw his arms out to break his fall but his hands slid through the soft earth and buried him. He came up sputtering, face muddied, arms fighting, tangled in the strings that created small squares over the area.

“Hold still!” she shouted, but the wind swept her words across the moor, silenced.

“Jesus H.,” she whispered, as she stomped towards the chaos. Other students tried to help by grabbing Willie’s wrists attempting to pull him out, but the situation worsened as yet another person fell into the grid.

“Oh, for the Love of Thor,” she muttered, hurrying now before real damage was done. 

Taking command of the situation she had Willie and the other student removed, the grid restrung and the students allocated to their sections. She sighed at the mess in front of her. I’d best take this one, she thought. 

Tools gathered, she began to methodically excavate starting at the corner and moving inward. The divots from Willie’s arms and feet were slowly filling back in. On impulse, she lay flat on the edge of the area, reached into one of the depressions, shoulder deep. Her fingers scrabbled in the unseen earth, sucked and pulled by the terrain.

She hit something hard, wrapped her fingers around it. 

Closing her eyes tight she prayed to every Norse god she could name. _Let this be what I think it is._

_One minute he was fine, raiding cattle, the next coming to with a throbbing head and blood running down the back of his neck. Blackness, again, and waking up in France with his Uncle Alexander, a priest, and his godfather, Murtagh, tending to his wound. _

_He had no idea what happened to him, or why. The last thing he remembered was laughing with the other renegade men in his group, yet hearing what he thought was his Uncle Dougal’s voice._

_He dreamt in that blackness. Dreamt of a lass, hair dark as the deepest water in a burn, curls blown around her face. A face he couldna see. He dreamt of the moors, the sun shining down on the rich greens and browns. He dreamt of long pale hands, a lithe body, slender legs. A woman in breeks, no less bonny because of it. _

_He searched in his dreams but he could never see her face. _

* * *


	2. The Shape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to @kalendraashtar for understanding me, and honing in on what was missing in this chapter. Thank you, my friend.

_“This is boring,” she stated firmly. The hot sun was relentless. She was sweating and tired and covered in dirt and sand._

_“How so?” Cigarette dangling from his mouth, Uncle Lamb continued to brush away at something peeking through the ground._

_“Well, I’ve not found anything! All I do is carry dirt in buckets and watch someone else run it through a sieve. All I’ve found is rocks.”_

_Uncle Lamb looked up from his grid and smiled._

_“Ah, but sometimes the rocks are hiding something. You must take care. Be observant. Notice things.” Uncle Lamb looked up at her, squinted into the Egyptian sun. _

_“Sometimes you find something when you least expect it. Pay attention to the work, Girl.”_

The work. 

The work involves finding coordinates identified during earlier surveys with GPS, checking conditions, deciding on the best place to dig excavation trenches. It is physically demanding, as one must walk long distances over the bog, jump across deep water-filled drains. Planks to serve as sidewalks must be laid, tents and tables set up in which to catalogue finds. Every piece, every trinket, every suspected thing is brought to the table, physically and metaphorically, for discussion and dissection. 

The day was still fine, but overcast. Scotland’s infamous weather did not disappoint, alternately sunny, then rainy. 

It had been one month. One month of peeling layer after layer, brushing away the earth, taking pictures of what lay there, marking each artifact in its place on the grid, on the moor, in the world. Telling the story, the beginning, introducing history. 

Then, there was the lab.

The lab was where the things came to life. Claire stood in front of the table in the University lab looking over what her small patch of the moor had yielded. It was a stunning find. The broadsword was long, with a beautiful basket handle. It was heavy, the carvings clearly Viking in origin. Whoever had swung this had to have been strong. 

More layers were peeled, and the warrior himself was revealed. 

Bogs have a way of preserving things, keeping them intact, perfect. When she found the first bone she was angry. The whole site could have been ruined by an uncoordinated, overanxious young boy. If he had fallen onto one of these, broken them, shattered them, this perfection would not have existed.

The bones themselves were remarkable. The skull was perfectly shaped, the only flaw being a small chip in its base. A trauma of some sort, a blow to the back of the head. Perhaps in battle, she thought. The femurs and tibias were long, the metatarsals long, the ulna, radius, all long. This Viking was tall. Very tall. But if he dated back to Culloden, he would have been 18th Century, which would have made him uncharacteristically tall for the time period. Because that would have meant that he was a pure-blooded Viking. All those centuries later, no dilution, no ancestors other than Celtic in origin. Unheard of really, because most 18th century men were shorter, growth stunted from poor nutrition and the mixing of cultures. 

Late into the night in the dimness of the lab, hunched over her work, Claire pored over the bones, took measurements, digitally entered them into her computer software. When the calculations and data entry were complete, she pressed ‘Enter’. 

As she waited, she slipped the black covered elastic off her wrist and gathered her hair into a knot on the top of her head. 

Eventually, a 3D image emerged. 

A beautiful image. An image that seared itself into Claire’s brain, took her breath away.

His eyes were slanted, cat-like. High cheekbones. Long, straight nose. Strong jaw. Large hands. Long legs, and torso. Slender hips. Wide shoulders.   
He looked like a Norse God.

Claire found herself going over the image again and again. Day after day. Her time in the lab was getting increasingly isolated.   
It was becoming a problem. 

In the last two weeks alone she missed a meeting of compliance with the Federal Historic Preservation Department, was often late for her morning meetings with her project manager, and was woefully far behind on her report. She was also in trouble for not engaging with patrons and sharing her work via exhibits at the University. 

She couldn’t help it. The Viking was taking over. Late at night she tweaked measurements to make him more human, more battle worn, more life-like. In true Norse fashion, she imagined blue eyes, blond hair. She gave him strong blunt fingers, and long slender feet.

When she was satisfied, she called Geillis. Geillis was an artist, and a friend. 

The women were standing around the computer, the skeleton behind them. 

“Can you do it?” Claire asked.

“Of course I can,” Gellis scoffed. “Has he been carbon dated yet?”

“I’ve sent off the samples,” Claire moved over to the bones, ran a blunt nailed finger along one rib, “but you know the system. I’ll be grey haired before I get them back.”

“What about him?” Geillis asked, nodding her head toward another skeleton laid out on a different table. That one was smaller, equally complete. Claire had found him first, lying face down on top of the larger specimen along with an English-style sword. 

Claire shrugged. “I’m not as fussed about him.” 

“What?” Geillis was stunned. “You’ve found two perfect specimens and you’re not ‘fussed’ about one of them? What the hell?”

“Christ, Geillis, ease up, will you? The Viking first. You shouldn’t be surprised at that.” Claire crossed her arms, feeling defensive. There was nothing wrong with wanting to put the object of your primary research first. 

Geillis’ brow furrowed at Claire’s sharp tone. 

“Actually, what I’m surprised about is that you asked for a cast in the first place. You are an expert in Viking weaponry, Claire, not actual Vikings. And I haven’t heard you say a word about the sword you found.”

Claire stared at her friend. Looking into Geillis’ eyes she felt a bit guilty, but of what, she wasn’t sure. “This will be the sixth skeleton I’ve found that could be Viking in origin. Weapons are my expertise, yes. But why shouldn’t I go a little further this time?”

Geillis acquiesced with a slight nod of her head. “Well, best let me get started.”

A frisson of excitement ran up Claire’s spine. 

_Jamie hefted the broadsword. The weight was perfect, as was the balance. He swung it a few times getting a feel for the weapon. _

_Aye, it would do._

_He looked over at his Uncle Dougal. He had mixed feelings about the man, had difficulty trusting him. But he was here to collect Jamie from France as promised, so maybe he could relax around him a bit. He’d feel better when he got to Leoch. His Uncle Colum was a better man, in Jamie’s opinion, and he was anxious to see him again._

_He looked closely at the sword. The basket hilt looked familiar, as did the markings._

_“This is my father’s,” he said to Dougal._

_“Aye, and yer welcome,” his Uncle answered._

_Interesting, Jamie thought. He would have bet money that Dougal would have stolen the piece, sold it for money, and claimed it was lost. _

_That night Jamie dreamt of his broadsword. He was holding it tight, swinging desperately, fighting the fatigue in his arms. And as he fought, the weapon was sucked into the bog, down, deeper. No matter how hard he tried to hold it in his hands, the wet landscape pulled him under. _

_His world became Dark. _

_Save for the pale hand reaching toward him. _


	3. The Lost

_“I knew I’d find you here,” Uncle Lamb chuckled._

_“It’s so beautiful, Uncle.” Claire was mesmerized by the sarcophagus he had found. The Queen entombed inside must have been stunning. Green eyes, high cheekbones, full lips, delicate ears, long dark braid, the headdress in gold leaf. _

_Uncle Lamb watched Claire get lost in the image. “What do you think her story is?” she asked._

_“Well,” said Uncle Lamb. “That’s where the research comes in. Now we have to find her in the history books. We have to make sure she’s who we think she is. We have to match up all of the things we’ve found with who she might have been in life. We have to bridge the gap between life and death.”_

_Claire shivered. “I want to know everything about her,” she stated._

_“Be careful, Girl,” Uncle Lamb warned. “Don’t get too attached. Archaeologists must be careful we don’t fall into idolatry. We must stay detached.” _

“My God, Claire,” Geillis said softly. “Even I’m surprised at how well this turned out, and I’m one of the most conceited people I know.”

Claire stared at the cast. It was beautiful. He was beautiful. 

“It’s wonderful, Geillis. Thank you.” Claire took pictures as she circled the table. 

Claire stood in awe of the specimen before her. It was the sheer size and breadth of him that astounded her. He had to have been full Celtic in origin. In contrast, the other skeleton was smaller, shorter. Were they buried together? Tossed into an open pit, one on top of the other? Surely the smaller one couldn’t have overpowered her Viking. 

Her Viking. 

She needed to stop calling him that. Stay detached, Uncle Lamb had taught her. 

Before the thought had fully formed in her mind, the words were out of her mouth. 

“I want a sculpture. I want something I can display when I get invited to speak all over the world. And I’ve no doubt this will take me all over the world. I’ll leave the choice of material up to you. That way I can leave the cast here, at the University. It will make a stunning addition to their museum collection.”

“Claire, you can’t be serious,” Geillis said. “You realize how long this will take, right? And who’s going to pay for it?”

Claire turned towards her friend, annoyance etched in every feature. What was this? Since when did Geillis worry about this stuff? 

“Are you an artist, or aren’t you?” Critical, condescending, angry. 

Geillis’ mouth dropped open. That’s twice now Claire had been sharp with her. Since when did Claire speak to her like that? 

“Ye realize ye’ll have to go outside, actually meet people, travel, interact with humans?” Geillis’ words dripped with the venom of sarcasm. “When was the last time you actually looked at the sky?”

“Jesus H., Geillis, I’m offering you a commission. I’m offering to make your work the centerpiece of my lecture tour, your name known, and you’re giving me grief about time and money?”

“Fine. I’ll do it. I’ll sketch something up and show you tomorrow.” Geillis grabbed her things, left the lab. 

When she was gone from the room Claire felt badly about how she’d spoken to her friend. She walked over to the cast. Gently, reverently, she ran a finger across one cheekbone. Her hand cupped his strong jaw, fingers trailed down the muscled throat. Her eyes traveled over his torso, the powerful thighs. She stood staring longer than she should have.

She felt a wave of longing come over her, a physical arousal that had her blushing in embarrassment. 

She didn’t know what had come over her. The idea for the sculpture just came to her. She could see herself on a stage, at the podium, this Viking on display just over her left shoulder, the slides of the site and the find on the screen behind her. She could envision an audience full of academics, historians, students, archaeologists. She could see herself talking about the broadsword, the actual artifact in his large stone hands. She would want the statue to be life sized, as historically accurate as possible.

Claire shook her head, disgusted. She was lying to herself, to Geillis, to the University. Truth was she wanted something she could keep. She wanted this man, longed for him, fantasized about him, dreamed of him. The cast belonged to the University. The statue would be hers. Forever. 

Hours passed without her realizing. 

Finally, she came back to herself, as if waking from a slumber, left the lab. As she exited, she took a moment to look at the sky, breathe the crisp night air. It did feel like a long time since she’d been outside.

She grabbed a quick dinner, a quicker shower, fell into bed. 

She dreamt that night of her warrior. 

He sat among a group of men, taller, broader than all of them. His handsome face a mask of calm, but she could tell by the tension in his cat-like eyes that he was angry. Furious, even. The bearded man who was talking to everyone in the room spoke in Gaelic, she didn’t understand anything. He passed a hat. Coins from the crowd were dropped inside. The man continued to speak, gesturing, urgent. Her warrior stiffened when the man’s hand fell to his shoulder. His spine went ramrod straight as the man rent his shirt, exposed his bare back.

Claire woke up with a start, sitting straight up in bed. She was panting, a light sheen of sweat on her forehead, between her breasts, on the back of her neck. Out from under the covers the cool night air made her shiver. 

She grabbed her notebook quickly, before she forgot what she had seen.

In the morning, she called Geillis. 

“Have you sketched him yet?”

“Good morning, to you, too,” came back the sarcastic reply. “And I’m working on it. Why?”

“Give him scars on his back,” Claire said. “An entire crisscross of deep scars, as if he’d been flogged. Violently. And his nose needs to be changed slightly, as if it had been broken. Only once, though. He’s got a small bump on the bridge. Nothing that changes the line of it, it’s not crooked or anything. And his hair is not the usual Viking style. It’s longish, but there are curls at his nape. It’s thick. Almost luxurious. His eyes need to be cat-like, but then again you know that from the digital image. And his jaw is impossibly sharp. A really strong jaw with scruff. Not a beard, just like maybe, two days’ growth.”

Geillis started to take notes but quickly stopped. Claire wasn’t making sense. She’d never heard her ramble so much.

“He’s big, Geillis, like 6’4” big. And broad shouldered. More than we originally thought. His waist tapers slightly. The digital doesn’t do that part of him justice. He’s lean, too. Hard. No excess.”

“Claire-“ Geillis’ firm voice brought her back to the present. She’d been so lost in recounting her dream.

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I’ve written it down for you,” Claire said. 

“Claire. Stop. Scars on his back? First of all, how do you know all this?” Geillis asked. “Did you find him already?”

“Find him?” Claire repeated. Good God, what must she sound like?

“Yes. Historically. How can you know that he looks precisely like this? Did you find him? What’s his name?”

“Sort of,” Claire said haltingly. “I’m on to something, I think. Fairly certain, in fact.” 

“All right.” Geillis took a deep breath. “My second question. Am I sculpting him naked?”

“Of course not!” Claire exclaimed.

“Then why in hell would I sculpt scars on his back?” Geillis let the question hang in the air.

Claire was silent. Longer than she should have been.

“Like I said,” she finally spoke, “I think I’ve found him. But you’re right. Of course, he’ll have on a shirt and a kilt. I just got wrapped up in his personal past for a moment.”

“Right.” Geillis paused. “Well. Okay. Let me finalize my sketch and I’ll call you when I’m ready. Is that okay? But when you’re sure of who he is, text me. Send me a picture if you have one. That will help.”

“Yes, of course,” Claire said softly. “And thank you, Geillis. I mean it. There’s no one else I would trust this find with.” 

Claire hung up, pressed the heels of her hands tight to her closed her eyes. What the hell was wrong with her? She ran anxious hands through her curls.

She knew she should have confirmed all this first. Knew she should have done her research before calling Geillis with all these ridiculous details. Details that shouldn’t be added until they were proved. If they could be proved. 

She catapulted into action, dressed, gathered her things, headed to the Library at the University. 

If what she saw in her dream was somehow real, she was looking at a movement. A grassroots movement. Money being collected. Her warrior being made an example of something. He was found at Culloden so that’s where she would start.

The years before The Rising of 1745. 

_“My neck is my own concern and so is my back!”_

_“Not while ye travel with me, sweet lad.” _

_He was angry, frustrated, full of rage. He stomped off into the trees, generous mouth firm, lips pressed into a straight line. Fists bunched, back straight, neck bent in helpless submission._

_He lay down finally, away from the group of men, away from his Uncle. He tried to relax, let the night sounds lull him to sleep. _

_He dreamt of her again. She was equally frustrated, but not angry. He dreamt of her surrounded by books looking much like he did at the Université de Paris. In his dream he was not surprised that she was educated, that she could read and write. _

_Her hair was long, a curly-wig, the light from some odd torch highlighting the different tones. She was searching for him. He was certain of it. _

_Carefully, methodically, nervously, she flipped through the books muttering to herself, jotting notes, rejecting books by tossing them down the table. _

_His rest was oddly calmed by her presence. His breathing became deeper, his sleep more settled. She was searching for him. _

_He was not alone. _


	4. The War

_“Excuse me, young Miss,” the voice said softly. “The library will be closing now. You must return your book, please.”_

_Claire looked up at the older Egyptian man with the kind face._

_“I’m sorry, what?”_

_He pointed to the window, and the encroaching darkness. “The library is closed, young Miss.” He bowed in apology._

_“Oh, I’m so sorry!” she cried. Claire began to gather her notes, packing up quickly. “May I take this book with me?” she asked, “Can I check it out?”_

_The man smiled kindly. _

_“I am very sorry, young Miss. This is a reference book. But you may come back tomorrow and request it again.” He looked at the cover. “Ah. Ancient Egyptian queens. Most satisfying, yes?”_

_“Yes,” Claire breathed. “Absolutely fascinating.”_

_Later, back at the tents, she showed Uncle Lamb her research. He looked over her notes with a critical eye. _

_“Too many opinions here, Girl. Not enough facts.”_

_“What do you mean?” Claire asked, looking over his shoulder, her curls bouncing with indignation. “I took those notes right from the book!”_

_“Really?” he laughed. “And the author stated in the book that she was the most beautiful queen EVER?”_

_Claire shrugged. “Well, sort of. I mean he said she was beautiful.” Uncle Lamb raised his eyebrows asking the silent question. “But he didn’t say ‘ever’ so…I guess it is my opinion.”_

_“Remember, Girl,” he advised, “thoughts and feelings stay out of your research. Stick to the truth, save your thoughts for your conclusions, and be prepared to defend, defend, defend.”_

Bonny Prince Charlie. 

She had enough books around her to tell his life story ten times over. She knew about Prestonpans, the march to London, and back again. She read about the starvation, the men deserting, the clans joining, but she could find nothing specifically about her Viking. 

She picked up a book off the top of her pile. This author seemed particularly knowledgeable. She turned to the title page. Dr. Frank Randall. 

Picking up her notes, she left the library study room stopping only to tell the librarian she was stepping out to make a call and would be back.

The Scottish sky was blue, intermittent clouds and sun, changing the green of the far-off hills from bright emerald to darkest pine. Since Geillis’ comment she tried to appreciate the raw beauty of this wild country more. 

She googled the man, found him at Oxford University, and called. After being transferred about seven times, she finally reached his office, the canned male voice telling her he was out, to please leave a message. 

She smiled as she left her message, remembering Uncle Lamb telling her to give her “name, rank and serial number” only. Never tell them what you want right up front because they won’t be intrigued enough to call back, he used to say.

“Hello, my name is Dr. Claire Beauchamp. I’m an archaeologist currently working with the University of the Highlands and Islands. I’ve a particular find I’d like to discuss with you, and would appreciate if you could return my call at 0845 272 3600, Ext. 555. I look forward to hearing from you.”

She hung up, pleased. Name, rank and serial number, indeed.

It wasn’t until much later in the day that Dr. Randall called back. His voice was smooth, his accent clipped, proper. After hearing what she was researching he immediately said it was much too detailed to leave to phone calls. It would be better if they met; could she come to London? When she said she couldn’t leave her site, he agreed to come up to Scotland. 

And come to Scotland, he did. He brought with him an impressive amount of documentation on Culloden and the Jacobite rising. 

When she described her Viking, he narrowed his eyes in thought.

“Yes, well, that could ring a bell. There were a few impressive Scots who fought in the battle. Do you have an approximate age?”

“Young,” she said. “In his twenties.”

“Hmmm,” Frank flipped through some files in his briefcase. “That does narrow it down. May I meet with you again tomorrow? Could you give me today and this evening to do some research up here? I may be able to at least identify his clan, or something more specific. A man of his stature, 6’4” you say?”

At Claire’s nod he continued, “There might be something written about him. Songs, poetry of the time, perhaps I could go through some of the old rosters, that kind of thing.” He smiled. He was a smallish man, much like her second skeleton, Claire thought. She managed to return the smile.

Dr. Randall called the next day.

“Might we meet for dinner?”

Claire shook her head. They always wanted to have dinner. 

“Sorry, Dr. Randall, dinner isn’t possible. But perhaps you’d like to come to the site? Or I could meet you in the lab later today?” Thankfully, he chose the lab.

Dr. Randall stared at the cast in front of him. He’d agreed to meet her there, with the hopes of ending the meeting with dinner. Dr. Beauchamp was a beautiful woman, and he found himself intrigued.

“So, this is the find?” he asked. “Impressive cast.”

“Yes, it is.” Claire wasn’t up for his chit-chat, decided to move things along. “Did you discover anything?”

“Actually, yes,” Dr. Randall smiled at her. He laid his briefcase on a desk, popped it open. He extracted multiple pages, began to lay them out for her. 

“Clans from all over the Highlands fought in the battle of Culloden. Each one of the clans offered an advisor, of sorts, to Charles Stuart. As much as he’d listen,” Dr. Randall looked expectantly at Claire. She seemed impatient so he continued.

“Anyway,” he cleared his throat, “because of his age, and stature, I’m thinking this particular Jacobian was known as Red Jamie from the MacKenzie Clan of Castle Leoch.”

“Red Jamie?” she asked.

“Yes,” Dr. Randall explained, “because of his red hair.”

“Red?” Claire exclaimed, “Are you sure?”

“History records it,” Frank said confidently, “so, of course I’m sure.”

“Interesting,” she mumbled.

“He was the youngest Clansman in the Prince’s inner circle. Actually, usurped his Clan’s War Chieftain for the job. Some historians speculate he was murdered by his Uncle. Others say he fell at the hands of the English at Culloden. Either way James Fraser was quite the warrior.”

Claire looked up from the notes sharply. “Fraser? I thought you said his name was MacKenzie?”

“He represented Clan MacKenzie. And brought his Fraser relatives with him. You see- “ Frank stopped. “Really, Dr. Beauchamp, this could take all night. Couldn’t we grab a bite to eat?” 

Claire rolled her eyes, but relented.

Dinner was not the ‘get to know you’ setting Frank had envisioned. He frowned as he noticed her plate sat mostly uneaten in front in her. She was completely wrapped up in discussing her find.

“So, you’re saying the remains I’ve discovered could quite possibly be this…James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser.”

“Yes,” Frank said, for at least the tenth time.

“And he was the red-headed nephew, bound to Clan MacKenzie by Colum ban Campbell MacKenzie, and his brother, Clan War Chieftain Dougal MacKenzie. But when Prince Charles headed into battle he was appointed by his Uncle Colum to lead the Clan’s men in battle over his own brother. Even though Colum MacKenzie wasn’t a Jacobite.”

“Exactly right,” Frank said. “Dr. Beauchamp- “

“Hmmm?” She looked up from the notes.

“Aren’t you going to finish your dinner?”

“Oh,” Claire was so absorbed in this information she’d forgotten to eat. “Of course.” She put the papers down, picked up her fork. 

“So, the Jacobites lost the Battle of Culloden, Prince Charles escapes, and the Scots lose their way of life, their culture. What a waste.” She toyed with her food, moving it around the plate, lost in thought. 

“Indeed,” Frank responded, watching her carefully. “One will always wonder what Scotland would have looked like, what men like Red Jamie might have accomplished if the Battle never happened.”

Claire looked up sharply. 

“Thank you, Dr. Randall, I’m most grateful.” She smiled. “You’ve done an amazing amount of work in such a short time.”

“You’re welcome, and please,” he said softly, “call me Frank.”

Claire smiled, and took a bite of her now cold spaghetti. 

At the end of the evening Claire shook Dr. Randall’s hand, thanked him again for his meticulous notes and left him on the curb outside the restaurant.

When she got to the lab she walked straight over to her warrior.

“A ginger, huh? I never would have thought.” 

She ran a hand over the top of his head, caressing it lightly. He was so beautiful. What might you have become, she wondered.

She stepped away reluctantly, and went over to examine his sword again. She must research the markings on the basket hilt, she thought. Certain blacksmiths had a signature style to their craftsmanship. Perhaps she could narrow down where he was from exactly, and further confirm his identity.

James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser.

How I wish I could save you, she thought. 

_I swear by the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, and by the Holy Iron that I hold, to give ye my fealty, and to pledge ye my loyalty to the name of clan MacKenzie and if ever I shall raise my hand against ye in rebellion, I ask that this Holy Iron shall pierce my heart._

_He dreamt again of that night at the Gathering. He never took that vow. He couldn’t. He was not a MacKenzie. He was a Fraser. The son of a bastard, but still, he took pride in his Clan. He had hidden away in the stables, never seeing a dram of whisky, or a dance shared._

_Je Suis Prest._

_Damn Dougal MacKenzie. Damn him to Hell. _

_It was Dougal’s fault they were here, in the middle of plotting a war they couldna win. No one had more cause to hate the British than him. He knew what they thought of the Scots. Savage dogs that should be put down. But after three uprisings, this would be different. The British would be motivated to put them down for good. Colum was against it, but in the end, the pressure from the other Clans and realizing that if any MacKenzies discovered the money Dougal had collected for the cause didna end up supporting the war, he relented. And in relenting he banished his brother back to his estate and set Jamie in charge._

_King over the Water. Ifrinn. His son was a Bloody sop. Weak, spoiled, arrogant, ignorant. _

_He rolled over, tried to sleep again. He was cold. He never could sleep well if he was cold. His plaid did what it could, but it was difficult to find a bed of leaves, or a tree to curl under. _

_This time as he drifted off, she came to him. Again, surrounded by books, papers, maps, rosters, her hands flew over the objects around her, fingers tapping on some strange machine in which all manner of words appeared. He strained to see the words, to understand what she was showing him. _

_You’ll have no support from the French, came the message. Regardless of the war in Flanders reducing the numbers of troops in Scotland, it’s not enough. _

_He could almost see her face. She turned her head slightly, gazing off into a distance only she could see. Her face half shadowed by those glorious curls. She reached for a black tie at her wrist, gathered up her hair and secured it low on her neck. _

_He gasped. _

_Pale skin, long lashes, regal neck. ‘Woman’ etched into every detail of that profile. _

_He heard her as clearly as if she were lying beside him, wrapped in his plaid, her hips pressed to his, her breasts against his chest, her lips inches from his, whispering, pleading, confiding._

_You will lose. You will lose everything. And you will die._


	5. The Found

_“Every culture has superstitions,” Uncle Lamb explained over dinner. “Doesn’t mean you have to believe them, but you do have to consider them in your research.”_

_“But you said facts only,” young Claire reminded him as she tore another chunk of bread from the loaf._

_“Put your mind to the Culture, Girl. Think like your subjects. What is fantasy to us, is fact to them. Their gods, their beliefs, their rituals. If they don’t perform them, then what may happen is seen in that context, as a sign or a punishment,” Uncle Lamb pointed an arthritic finger at her, “Fact.”_

_“I’ll never be a good archaeologist,” moaned Claire._

_“You, Girl, will be one of the best. I know it.” Uncle Lamb smiled softly, reaching across to squeeze her hand. “Your parents would be proud.”_

Claire spent the next few weeks researching. She traced the origin of the broadsword as closely as she could to an area in Scotland near Inverness. Older maps, historical accounts had revealed the town of Broch Mordha as a thriving, but small village. The blacksmiths in the area had the same craftsmanship and design as the basket hilt on her Viking’s weapon. It was also, according to old Clan maps, on the border of the Fraser/MacKenzie lands. 

All that research had taken its toll. Late nights at the University Library, long days on site supervising the dig, going over every artifact, more late nights poring over delicate, ancient parchment, long days writing her paper. 

She barely ate, barely slept. 

When she did sleep, her dreams were haunted. Haunted by a tall, red-headed man. Sometimes he was smiling, barely a curve to his full lips, other times a grin, yet other times, a soft tilt to the corner of his mouth. Sometimes his eyes were intense, looking deep into her soul, other times they were slits filled with desire. Sometimes she could feel his body against hers, heavy, smooth muscles reminiscent of the Scottish munros that surrounded her, taut in desire, slick with sweat.

She would wake, some nights, heart pounding, body releasing in orgasm, thighs wet, the sheets needing to be changed. She would wake with her fingers working over herself, her hips rolling, the lasting image of him over her, grinding, pumping, pulsing, her mouth open searching for his, thirsty for his kiss, a long moan pulled from her depths.

When she was awake, she was equally haunted. She moved her desk to be nearer to the cast, to be able to gaze at his face, feast her eyes on the replica of his body. 

Geillis was concerned. She brought her food, made her eat it. But all Claire wanted from her friend was her sculpture.

Frank Randall contacted her to say he’d had further information for her. He invited her to London to see it. When she politely declined, asked if he could send it to Scotland, he answered jovially, “I’m no art thief.”

Which is how she ended up at the National Portrait Gallery in London.

Frank was shocked at her appearance. She was thin, cheeks gaunt, hair dull. Her clothes hung loose, draping, sagging on her. She was staring at the self portrait of Ellen Caitriona Sileas MacKenzie Fraser with such intensity it changed her features. She glowed from within.

“The hair is so red,” she said in awe. 

“Yes,” Frank replied, standing just off to her left, hands behind his back. “Sister to Colum and Dougal. She died in childbirth. A formidable woman, yet back then, giving birth was often dangerous.”

His mother. Her Viking’s mother. She could see the similarities. He had her hair, her eyes.

“And the family home?” Claire asked, “Can you confirm it was near Inverness?” 

“I believe I can, if you’ll join me for dinner,” Frank started, “I know of a great Indian place –“

“I can’t,” Claire cut him off. “I need to get back.” She turned to face him. “If you’d be so kind as to send me any other information to my office at the University, I’d be most grateful.” A look crossed his face, a look Claire thought she could interpret. He was angry. “I plan to give you full credit in my paper, Dr. Randall.”

Frank’s jaw clenched in frustration. “Fine. Yes. I’ll do that.”

Three days later Claire was in her office reading over Dr. Randall’s notes. A knock at the door brought her out of her reverie. 

She looked up. “What is it, Willie?”

“Sorry for the interruption, but they’re askin’ for ye down at the site, Dr. Beauchamp.” 

Claire sighed, planted her hands on the desk, made of show of getting up. Willie looked over her office as he waited for her to get ready. It was a mess. Half empty cups of tea, bags of uneaten take away, papers everywhere, stacks of books. He spied the old maps, craned his neck for a better look. 

“Och, is that Inverness?” he pointed to a small symbol on the map. “Drawn quite close to Craigh na Dun.” Willie faked a shiver. “Fairy Hill. Now that’s a place I’d never want to excavate near.”

Claire looked at Willie sharply. “What do you mean, Fairy Hill?”

“Och, it’s an old song. The Woman of Balnain. There’s a circle of standing stones at Craigh na Dun. They’re said to be magical.”

Claire’s senses went on high alert. “Tell me what they do? Why are they magical?”

“Weel,” Willie explained, “It’s like the song says.” 

The young man stood at attention like a Shakespearean actor about to set the scene, cleared his throat, began to recite, “I am a woman of Balnain, the folk have stolen me over again, the stones seemed to say. I stood upon the hill, and wind did rise, and the sound of thunder rolled across the land. I placed my hands upon the tallest stone and travelled to a far, distant land, where I lived for a time among strangers who became lovers and friends. But one day, I saw the moon came out and the wind rose once more, so I touched the stones and travelled back to my own land and took up again with the man I had left behind.”

“Willie,” Claire whispered. “She travels through the stones?”

“Of course!” he said proudly, “Everyone around these parts knows the story of The Woman of Balnain.”

“And these stones?” Claire asked carefully, “They are still standing?”

“Absolutely,” Willie confirmed. “And a more haunting place, ye’ll never find.”

_As the war loomed closer on the horizon Jamie became more and more occupied by his dreams. He sought solace in sleep, sought her. The men had huddled around the fire, trying to keep warm, telling stories to keep the homesickness at bay, singing the old songs to lift spirits. Jamie drifted off to the sound of their voices. _

_He dreamt that night of the Woman of Balnain. He dreamt of her, with her long dark hair, the wind blowing, the thunder rumbling, whipping the twisted strands around her beautiful face. Her high cheekbones, her long neck. He saw her there, walking slowly up the hill, towards the stones, the largest with its cleft, calling to her, urging her to touch it, to come to him, to be with him, to find him. He knew this place, recognized it. _

_Craigh na Dun._

_She looked up at the tallest stone. Amber eyes. _

_His heart was moved by the sight of her. Thin, lost, lonely, almost grieved. What was she looking for? _

_The winds stirred his hair as surely as it did hers. _

_You, came the answer. I am looking for you, James Fraser. _


	6. The Prodigal

_Uncle Lamb waved to her as she made her way to him. _

_“Well, how did it go?” He tried to take her suitcase but she hooked her arm through his instead._

_“I was very nervous, but it went well! I managed to interview who I needed to, and complete the research to finish my paper.”_

_“Well done, Girl, well done. Seems I can leave this all behind, and in good hands.” She slowed her pace to his. She’d never noticed how frail he’d gotten lately._

_“Don’t talk like that, Uncle Lamb.” She squeezed his arm._

_“I’m not going to last forever, you know.” He winked at his niece. _

_“I know,” she answered him. “Just don’t disappear on me yet.”_

It was difficult for her to be here. The wind was wild, grabbing at her hair, her clothes, bits of dust swirling into her face, stinging her eyes. She peeled the black elastic off her wrist, gathered her hair as best she could, strands still working loose in the tempest. 

After Willie mentioned it, Claire immediately booked a trip to see Craigh na Dun for herself. 

But the trip wasn’t pleasant. The faint buzzing in her ears, in her head was almost painful. Like the constant hum of white noise, the drone of a fallen electrical wire, like cicadas that never stop, their rise and fall never offering any relief.

Mrs. Graham, the proprietor of her Bed and Breakfast, offered to take her to the fairy hill, told her everything about the place, the superstitions, rumors of missing people, the burnt offerings. Claire found it fascinating. People disappear all the time, Mrs. Graham had said on the drive up, but it wasn’t just a bored housewife who had run off. On the pagan feast days, the stones were dangerous. It was important to treat them with care.

“So where do the people go?” Claire asked, facing the stones, eyes squinting in pain.

“I suppose wherever they want. But they go into the past. Two hundred years,” she answered. “It’s always two hundred years.”

“The song, The Woman of Balnain, says they return. Has there been any evidence of that?” Claire tried to focus through the noise.

“Not that I have heard,” Mrs. Graham said, “But then again, you’d have to search the library for old newspapers reporting on such mysterious events.”

Claire nodded. She dared not go any closer, something warned her, told her to fight, fight the pull.

“Mrs. Graham,” Claire asked, “can we go back down now? I believe I’ve seen enough.”

“Of course, Lass.” Mrs. Graham looked hard at Claire, saw the headache behind her eyes. “I believe ye need a cup of tea.”

Tea, and scones, helped with the headache, of course. As did distance from the hill. 

But Mrs. Graham didn’t stop there. Show me yer tea leaves, she said. A wee bit of fun. She gently shook the cup, turned it over with a crisp snap of her wrist, let the oolong leaves fall where they may, turned it upright again. 

She gasped, looked at Claire, eyes wide, face frozen in fear. 

Shivers ran down Claire’s spine, goosebumps rose on her arms, sweat broke out on the back of her neck, heart raced.

“What do you see?” Claire rasped.

“Contradictions,” Mrs. Graham replied, voice shaking. 

“Listen to me,” the old woman said, gathering strength. She set the cup down, china rattling in time with her tremors. “There is an explanation for why ye were affected today at the stones.”

At Claire’s shocked look she said firmly, “The stories are old, some say as old as the stones themselves, passed down from generation to generation through ballads and songs. I first heard them from my grandmother, and she from hers. The songs tell stories about people who travel through the stones. Not literally through the stone itself, ye see. The circle at Craigh na Dun marks a place where the powers of nature come together. The stones gather the powers, and give it focus, and for certain people on certain days it allows them to pierce the veil of time.”

Claire listened intently, reactions flitting across her glass face, reactions of skepticism, fear, shock, denial, acceptance, hope.

“I know what I know and I won’t pretend that I don’t. Ye have a right to make up yer own mind. I must tell ye the truth as I know it, even if it might cost me my reputation.” She waited for Claire to understand her meaning. 

When it seemed like Dr. Beauchamp believed her words, she said, “If you go up that hill on a certain day, I believe you can travel to some other time.”

“Where, or when would that be?” Claire asked, a small idea growing in her mind.

“I don’t know. Every traveler is different. They must make their own journey, and their own path. But the songs do say the travelers often return.”

“And if they don’t want to return?” Claire looked at the older woman. It was her turn to hope for understanding of what she meant.

“Weel,” Mrs. Graham nodded, “I suppose one could make that choice, as well.”

They sat still, silent. Mrs. Graham and Claire internally deciding to keep the others’ thoughts and words private, confidential, a secret. 

Outside the small kitchen, a storm brewed. Thunder rumbled in the distance, lightening flashed, illuminating the interior. 

Mrs. Graham stood, added fresh water to the kettle, lit the blue flame on the hob, turned to face her house guest.

“Ye want to disappear,” she said boldly. Saw the answer plain as day in the Archaeologist’s glass face. 

“I could hear them,” Claire answered. “They hum. They never stopped buzzing.”

Mrs. Graham nodded. “I can help.”

“You can?” Claire sat up straight in the kitchen chair. “How?”

“I belong to a…a local group that observes rituals there. At Craigh na Dun. Druid rituals.” 

Claire blinked in surprise. “What must I do?”

“Be ready in two weeks’ time. The Feast of Samhain.”

Claire’s eyes widened. Two weeks. No. This was impossible. She shouldn’t even be considering, not plotting, planning, wishing, nor fantasizing about this scenario. A scenario where she could travel back in time, back to the time of her Viking, to the time of James Fraser. 

Yet, a small voice in her mind said, if she could go there, she knew exactly what she would do. What she would suggest be done. How she would save her Viking. 

Watching her guest, Mrs. Graham was clear in her certainty that Dr. Beauchamp knew exactly where she would go. And when.

And that she would become one of the missing.

_Dougal was back. He’d spent the day trying to wrestle control of the Clan army from him, but Jamie was having none of it. He was in command. It was his right, his destiny, his claim as Laird of Broch Tuarach.   
He would prepare the men for battle, would take his time doing it, until they were ready, until he knew he wouldn’t be throwing them to the English wolves unprepared._

_In his exhaustion he lay down to sleep in his tent, plaid wrapped tight around him, the wind on the field whistling around the canvas, but denied from entering. A storm gathered in the distance. The words from the ballad echoed in his head again- I stood upon the hill, and wind did rise, and the sound of thunder rolled across the land._

_I’m coming, he heard her say as he drifted in that space between sleeping and waking. I promise. If I must endure two hundred years, I will find you. I will betray the people I know here, I will break their trust. They may never forgive me for the pain I put them through, but that will be my punishment. _

_I will find you. I will save you._

_Her amber eyes darkened to a golden brown._

_Will you live with me for a time, then? he asked her, whispering in his sleep, his lips asking what his heart was wanting. Will you live as my lover, my Woman of Balnain?_

_I have no other desire than to be with you, came the answer. _

_Jamie smiled in his sleep._

_Mo nighean donn, he whispered into the loneliness of his tent._

_She looked at him, confusion in her whisky coloured eyes. _

_My brown-haired lass, he told her, watched her eyes cast downward, a pink blush blossom on her cheeks, a shy smile play upon her lips. _


	7. The Dead

_She held his hand as he lay pale against the sheets. Her Uncle Lamb. The man who raised her, loved her, taught her. Friend, Father, Teacher, Mentor. _

_She would miss him so much._

_He stirred against the pillow, head rolling from left to right._

_“What can I get you, Uncle?” She cupped his face gently, hoping he would look at her, see her._

_“Have you seen my pack, Girl? I can’t go without my pack.”_

_Her eyes filled with tears. His pack. It was the last thing he picked up when he left for a dig. He carried it everywhere, was never without it._

_“It’s here, Uncle Lamb. Right next to the bed.” And it was. She reached down, lifted it up, set it in his line of vision. “See? Right here, ready to go.”_

_“Ready,” he said, with a sigh. “I’m ready.”_

_“Uncle Lamb!” she said sharply. _

_His glazed eyes looked over at her. And for a brief moment, he was there, conscious, focused, present. “I love you. Thank you for everything. I’ll miss you.”_

_“Love you, too, Girl. You were a good daughter,” he said, smiling._

_Then closed his eyes. _

Claire returned to University after her weekend in Inverness like a woman possessed.

Which she was.

All hours of the day and night she could be found at her desk, writing her final paper. She stopped only to sleep when she could no longer keep her eyes open, or to eat when she could no longer stand the gnawing pain in her stomach. She detailed her findings, included the history that Dr. Randall had given her, outlined the designs of the weaponry unique to Broch Morda. 

Geillis came to find her often, berated her for the state of her appearance.

“Claire!” she would shout from the doorway of the lab, making Claire jump. “Look at ye! Dark circles under your eyes, pale, and wastin’ away to nothing! And look at this place!” She’d wander the lab picking up half eaten bags of food, untouched cups of cold tea where the milk had curdled on top. “It’s disgusting. And you stink, Claire. When was the last time ye showered, or brushed yer teeth, or changed yer damn clothes!”

She would drag Claire home, throw her in the shower, cook for her and make her sleep. Then the process would repeat itself.

In the end, when the paper was finished, it was the best she’d ever written, strong, detailed, heavily defended, just as Uncle Lamb had taught her. 

It was a paper she would never present.

She cleaned herself up, handed it to the Dean of Archaeology, along with the President of the University. She went through the motions of agreeing to a publishing date, a Symposium, agreeing to everything, dates, places, smiling, nodding, shaking hands.

All the while thinking, one week left.

One week until I disappear.

She found a lawyer, made a will. It was simple really. She had no one. She bequeathed academic books and papers to various university libraries, archaeological possessions to various museums, her few personal possessions to friends, money to charities. Dissolving her life was easier than she thought.

And then Geillis called her to her studio. The sculpture was ready.

Claire stood in front of the finished piece. He was exactly 6’4” tall. His shoulders were broad, his sark open at the neck to reveal the hollow at the base of this throat, chest taut, collarbones stretching wide, the flat plane of his stomach tapering down to a low-slung kilt, the folds longer at the back then the front, his calves strong, encased in knee high boots. 

She looked at his face. 

The cat-like eyes, high cheekbones stark and sharp, the strong jaw, the stubbled chin, proud nose, high forehead, long muscled neck. His hair was swept back as if the moor winds were blowing from the east, the curls at the nape behind his left ear showing more than those behind the right, his mouth wide, generous. 

She reached up and ran a finger down his nose, felt the slight bump, smiled. 

This was the man who haunted her dreams, consumed every waking moment, made her forget everything else. The man who would die at Culloden, who she so desperately wanted to save, to love, to live with. 

Her Viking. James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser.

“It’s perfect, Geillis. Thank you.” She moved toward her friend, hugged her hard, putting in all of the emotion, all of the love, all of the feeling she could into the contact. 

Because this was her goodbye. 

Claire left the studio, looking back over her shoulder to wave to her friend, take in the sculpture one last time. She would go to the bank, withdraw the money, send Geillis a cashier’s cheque, pay this debt. She would leave instructions for the sculpture to be given to the University along with every other artifact from the dig, to be displayed beside the ancient bones of this warrior. 

When she finally walked into her flat, tears flooded her eyes, darkened them, rendered her momentarily blind as the realization hit her.

This Find would solidify her position as one of the top Archaeologists in the world, the premiere expert on Viking weaponry and artifacts. What she had managed to do was nothing short of remarkable. She was able to identify a random skeleton as a living, breathing man, by his age, his broadsword, and where he was found. All her years of scholarly pursuit came down to this one, major discovery. And she would not be here to revel in it. She would not be here to present, discuss, answer questions, inspire others. Her entire life had been dedicated to the study of Archaeology, as a child under Uncle Lamb’s care, then as a student under his tutelage, right up to this moment.

Instead of collecting accolades she would be standing in the centre of a circle of stones, trying to travel 200 years in the past to find the object of her studies.

It was then that Dr. Claire Beauchamp admitted to herself that she must be, quite simply, insane. 

_His Uncle Colum was dead. Found in his bed, gone peacefully, the disease finally having its way. He did not live to see this war, thank God. Before he died, he appointed Jamie as Chief of Clan MacKenzie, and Guardian of his son, Hamish MacKenzie, who would be Chief when he came of age. _

_But that left his Uncle Dougal. A power struggle was inevitable. Jamie knew it. But he couldna focus on that yet. His mind was in turmoil. _

_Craigh na Dun haunted him. The Faerie Hill came to him over and over, night after night, again and again in his dreams. And every time he woke his last image was the sight of her, in the circle, reaching for the tallest stone.   
_

_Two days. _

_He was given a leave of two days by that nutter Bonnie Prince Charlie so he could tell his family of Colum’s death. He was also told to bring back Lord Lovat’s men. He should have known. The Prince never granted anything out of the goodness of his heart. _

_But instead of heading to Lallybroch, he rode to Craigh na Dun. At the base of the hill was a small crofter’s cottage. It was abandoned, run down, but there was a roof, a hearth. He camped there that night, a small fire inside, waiting._

_For what, he wasn’t sure. _

_This war had given him an authority that made Dougal blind with jealousy. All his years of growing up as Laird Broch Tuarach came down to this. But rather than being able to revel in it, he had to watch his back, answer questions, explain himself. His entire life had been dedicated to being Laird, as a child under the tutelage of his father and his uncles, right up to this moment._

_Yet, here he was at the base of a hill, under a circle of standing stones, hoping for a woman he did not know, his very own Woman of Balnain, to come to him._

_It was then that James Fraser admitted to himself that he must be, quite simply, insane._


	8. The Goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to @balfeheughlywed for this chapter. She was the one who read it and told me it needed to breathe…to give Jamie and Claire time. Thanks again, Lauren. You were right.

_She’d buried him years ago, missed him every day, dreamt of him from time to time. This dream was different._

_She sat up suddenly, tears streaming down her face, her own voice crying out his name, waking her._

_In her dream he was right there, as vivid as if he were still alive. He looked like he did before he got old, in the early days of their time together. His hair was dark, his glasses round, spine straight, hands perfect before the arthritis bent them._

_In her dream he was laughing, talking to someone, a person he clearly cared for, loved even, because he was beaming. She couldn’t see the person, couldn’t hear them, but could feel Uncle Lamb’s happiness at seeing them. He took a step forward, disappeared._

_Right before he vanished she heard him say, Henry!_

_Her father. He’d been talking to her father. _

_Spoke his name._

_Then disappeared. _

Samhain dawned.

Mrs. Graham stood halfway down the hill watching. The sun barely hung in the sky, the other women already on their way home from the Druid ceremony. They had discussed what they would do if it didn’t work, agreed they would carry on as if it had never happened. But Mrs. Graham knew it would happen. She watched as Claire, dressed in a simple white dress, plaid shawl, sensible shoes, strode purposefully, seemingly without fear, trepidation, or uncertainty towards the stones. Mrs. Graham knew she felt all three. _Be safe, Claire_, she prayed, just before.

Just before she disappeared.

Mrs. Graham stood for a long moment in shock, in stunned silence. The birds stopped singing, the wind quieted as nature recognized the power of the moment and offered its respect. She turned to go back to her Bed and Breakfast. In her guest room there would remain a small satchel, toiletries strewn about the bathroom, clothes hung in the wardrobe, the perfect snapshot of a woman planning to come back after a day out. When she didn’t, it would propel the story that she was missing, perhaps dead. Mrs. Graham had hours of waiting ahead of her before making the phone call that she’d promised to make.

Claire woke up on the ground, head spinning, dew dampening the backs of her legs, her arms, her dress. She sat up, pulling the plaid around her. The stones were the same, the woods around her were not. They were thicker, deeper, surrounding more of the hill. 

She had done it. She had spoken his name, touched the stone, vanished from her time, fell through to another.

On trembling legs she walked around the top of the hill, deciding in which direction to go. When she saw the smoke, she knew. That was her destination.

The sound woke Jamie, like a crack of thunder, so loud he sat bolt upright.

He stood, sheathed his dirk, stirred the fire. He waited agonizing minutes, until finally, he heard his horse whicker nervously outside the cottage.

The door creaked open. Jamie crouched, on alert, knowing what he wanted to see, part of him feeling foolish. His hand went to his sword out of habit.

Suddenly, she was there. 

The woman who had come to him in his dreams, his Woman of Balnain. Faerie or witch, he wasn’t sure nor did he care. She was smaller than he imagined, dressed in nothing but her shift, her hair spilling in waves around her face, curls tumbling across her cheeks, her shoulders.

Robbed of breath, he couldn’t speak. 

Claire stepped inside, shivering, from cold, from fear, from relief that it worked. 

He was there. 

His hair was a fiery red in the hearth light, the gold, russet, auburn shades blending into one glorious colour. He was just as large as she imagined. She laughed, a laugh that sounded slightly crazy to her own ears. 

Claire stumbled then, the weight of it all crashing down on her, the months of work, the sleepless nights, the mountains of research, rarely eating or drinking, followed by the decision to leave her life, a life she would never resume in an easier time, people she would never see again, her guilt at the pain they would feel, the confusion at her disappearance, the grief she was causing. It all washed over her in a tidal wave of emotion that left her light headed, dizzy. 

She fell again, not through time or space, but to the floor in a crumpled heap.

“Lass!” Jamie shouted. He moved then, to cradle her head, to make sure she was alive.

Her eyelids fluttered, opened, met his. His were blue, so very blue, like a Scottish loch on a clear day.

“You’re real,” she whispered, reaching up to touch his face, running the backs of her fingers across the high Celtic cheekbones. He turned into the touch.

English. A_ Sassenach._

“So are you,” he whispered back, his Scots burr thick, the timber deep, his hand reaching for her curls, grabbing a handful, rubbing them between his fingertips.

“James.” His heart warmed as his name flowed from her lips. She traced the bridge of his nose, smiling as she felt the small bump there.

“I dinna…” he started, “Lass, I’m sorry, I….” His eyes searched her face, one finger tracing the shell of her ear.

“Claire,” she said, understanding him.

“Claire,” he breathed. Her breath hitched at the sound of her name from his mouth.

He helped her sit up, sat himself on the floor, facing her, hip to hip. They held on to each other, each one holding the other’s forearms, gripping them, she feeling the strength under his skin, he feeling the softness of hers, the delicate bones, the slender arms.

She traced an eyebrow, marveling at the colour of his eyes. He ran a finger down the column of her slender throat. Her thumb pressed against his lower lip, eliciting that smirk she had dreamt about. His hand enclosed her wrist, his thumb rubbing the black elastic that encircled it, whispering ‘for to tie yer hair’ so low it wasn’t even a whisper. They held hands, entwining fingers, stroking palms, all the while feasting their eyes on one another, sharing smiles, time standing still in the quiet of the cottage.

She leaned forward suddenly, placed her head on his shoulder, as if needing the comfort, the security, the sanctuary of his body. He nuzzled her hair with his lips, his nose, inhaling her scent, clean, fresh, like wild strawberries. He rubbed her back with his big hands feeling the bumps of her spine, her ribs. _A Dhia_, she was thin. She pressed her forehead against his strong neck, the faint smell of sweat, dirt, wool, and _man_ that had her breath coming short. Her hands ran down his back, the scars she knew were there making her path uneven. She felt the back of his shoulders, down to his triceps, then around to his biceps, his warrior strength obvious.

Finally, he spoke.

“I saw ye so many times. Ye came to me so often, in my dreams sometimes, when I was in a fever, when I was so afraid, and so lonely I knew I must die. Whenever I needed ye, I would see ye smiling, yer hair curled around yer face. Ye never touched me.” The tenderness in his eyes unnerved her.

“I can touch you now.” She reached out, cupped his jaw, the strong jaw she had stared at on her computer screen, tried to replicate on the cast. It wasn’t the cold hard feel of clay under her fingers now, but the warm-blooded feel of a man. Desire flared anew.

“Claire,” he said softly, as his eyes roamed her face, drinking her in. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” He gently pushed a curl behind her ear. The lopsided smile returned. “How is it ye’re not marrit?”

“Oh God!” Her eyes widened at the thought. “Are you married, James? I never even considered…”

“No, no’ marrit. Not even promised to anyone. I’m no’ much of a prospect for a lass. I have a price on my head, by the English, for escaping prison. A man was killed. They blamed me. So. No wife.”

“Nor I,” she said. “I’ve no husband. Married to my work, I guess.” She shrugged, dismissing a love life as too much bother.

“Jamie,” he said. At her confused look he repeated, “Call me Jamie, like my family does.”

He paused, breathing shakily. “I want…I would verra much like to kiss you. May I?”

Unable to speak, she nodded, tears welling up in her whisky eyes. She gazed at his lips, closing the distance between them.

Jamie closed his eyes, leaned forward. “I havena done this in a very long time,” he whispered, before their lips touched.

She said nothing, knowing it was the same for her. She parted her lips, closed her eyes, let her mouth embrace his, pressed herself to him, breasts to chest, her hands around his neck urging him closer, savouring the softness of his mouth, the salty taste of her tears, his tears, mingling, baptizing their kiss.

Lips parting, she smiled. And then her stomach growled.

Jamie laughed, a full belly laugh that had Claire grinning at the joy, the beauty, the _life _that radiated from him. “Yer hungry. Let me get ye some food.”

They ate then, the bannocks and cheese he had in his saddlebag, the ale in his stone bottle, a wee nip from the flask he carried, all of it tasting different, richer, fuller, purer. They sat in front of the fire, Claire warm now, Jamie stealing covert looks at this _creature_ who fell into his dreams, his life. _A Dhia_, she was so very different from his time. Beautiful, unmarked, pale skinned, glowingly alive.

“How?” he asked, biting off some cheese. 

“The stones,” she knew what he meant, answered simply. She knew he would understand, would believe her, would accept the impossible, Scottish folklore being what it is. He held out a morsel to her, placed it in her open mouth.

“But,” he hesitated, “but why?” He needed to know, to hear her say why she came to him, her purpose, her desires.

“To warn you,” she said earnestly, picking at her dress, digging in her pocket. She withdrew a small package. Opened it.

“What the devil?” he asked, seeing the small, colourful squares.

“They’re photographs. Well, pictures, like paintings, but with light. I’m an archaeologist. My name is Dr. Claire Beauchamp. I study the past. I study ancient Viking civilizations. I found you,” she said, holding one of the pictures out at him. “I found you.”

He looked at the picture she was holding, took it gently in his large, calloused hands. “These are bones,” he said, looking into her eyes. “Ye found my bones?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “On Culloden moor.” She handed him the picture of his sword as further proof. “The Rising of ’45. The Battle of Culloden against the British.”

He sat still, searching her face, emotions playing over his features. Finally speaking, “What a foolish place to fight. To die.”

She half laughed, half grunted. “It’s a ridiculous place to fight, chosen by Prince Charles.” He scoffed. She gripped his arm. “We cannot let it happen, Jamie. We have to stop it from happening. The Scots lose more than the battle. They lose their rights, lose their culture, they’re banned from wearing their tartans, their kilts. They lose their weapons, their homes, their families. They are shot and killed for treason.” 

As she spoke his face turned hard, his breathing controlled, but his eyes, his eyes held fear, worry, tension. He remembered her message in his dream. _You will lose. You will lose everything. And you will die._

“I dinna ken how to stop it, Claire. The Prince, he’s mad wi’ the idea of gaining the throne for his father.” 

“I know,” she said. “I have an idea. But it’s dangerous.” He raised an eyebrow silently encouraging her to go on. “In order to stop Prince Charles, to save your culture, and your people, there is only one option.”

“We have to win,” he said confidently. 

“No,” Claire said earnestly, “I don’t know how to make you see, you won’t win, you can’t win. Culloden Moor is a bog, it’s unsteady ground. More British soldiers than Scots. Cannons. A Calvary. History won’t tell this story any other way. I’m sorry.” She fumbled in her plastic package again and drew out a square of folded pages. “Look, this is from a historian. Just look.” She passed pages from a book to him.

Jamie unfolded them carefully, sat up straight, his eyes wide. “Mary, Michael and Bride! Did ye rip these out of a book? How could ye do such a thing?”

Claire chuckled. _Oh, the things we take for granted_, she thought. “In my time books are mass produced. Hundreds of them at once. They are everywhere, plentiful. They don’t take that long to copy. Please, just read the pages. You can read the words?”

Jamie looked skeptical at first, then insulted. “Of course, I can read! I’m an educated man, Mistress.”

She smiled, raised a hand to rub the crease that formed between his thick reddish brows. “I meant the spelling. The way it’s printed. The spelling of many words has changed over the years.”

He looked then, smiled sheepishly. “Oh, aye. I see yer meanin’.” He felt her touch deep in his soul, overjoyed that she would reach for him so easily, so naturally. He read then, carefully, absorbing every word, sometimes closing his eyes with sorrow, other times grunting in disgust. She watched him read, knowing what each word was costing him. 

When he was finished, he folded up the sheets of paper, handed them back to her. Claire rested her head on his shoulder, her hands in his lap, his arm around her, holding her close. It was so easy, this intimacy between them, this trust.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s beyond comprehension that I’m even here, let alone saying, I’m from the future! Your people are doomed! It’s a lot to accept.”

Jamie rubbed her arm. “It’s no’ yer fault. I just…I need some time, need to give it some thought.”

“It’s know it’s risky, what he’s proposing. But he honestly didn’t think there would be anything more effective in stopping Culloden, stopping the Highland slaughter, than that.”

“Ye kent him? This man who wrote the wee book ye destroyed?” Jamie looked down at her. 

“Yes. He helped me find you.” Claire smiled. “Well, set me on the path, anyway.”

“And ye thank him by disregarding his work, ripping out his pages,” Jamie teased. 

“He wasn’t you, that’s for sure,” she teased back, her true feelings shining from her eyes. 

Fatigue overwhelmed her suddenly. Up well before dawn, nerves, fear, running to find Jamie, now satisfied with food and drink, it all attributed to her body starting to slow down, to feel fatigue, to cry out for rest.

“I’m so tired,” she sighed, her eyes drooping. 

Jamie dragged the pallet he’d been sleeping on during the night over to the hearth, lay down, opened his arms to her. She snuggled against him, curved her body to his. He covered them both with his plaid. He kissed the top of her head, she responded, raising her face to his, seeking his kiss on her lips, eyes closed, practically asleep. 

He watched her breathing change, become slower, more even, watched her eyes dart back and forth behind her delicate eyelids. Did she see him as he saw her? Or was she on to other dreams now that she was here with him? 

One thing he did know, they needed to get moving.

He lay thinking of what he’d read, what she told him, where she had come from, how history needed to change. Slowly, he drifted off.

_She was in his arms. He could hold her now, cover her with his body, feel her breath against his neck, feel her open mouth touch his skin, the tip of her tongue tasting his flesh. He had never done this, never lain with a lass. Damn, but his cockstand felt so real in this dream. _

_Claire, he breathed, and this time she answered him, moaning his name._

_Her hands lifted the hem of his shirt, he knelt over her, quickly pulled it off. She went for his belt, he went for her shift. She raised her hips, pushed down her panties, he threw off his belt, and kilt, drove into her. Kissed her hard, open mouthed, tasting, tongues touching. She gasped, locked her legs around his hips. She was tight, tight around him, the urge to move more than he could resist, slowly at first, savouring the feel of her surrounding him, hot, pulsing. _

_Jamie, she whispered, Jamie you’re crushing me. _

_He was feeling too much to be embarrassed by his inexperience, just raised himself up on his hands, all the while feeding the instinct to move in her, again and again, to stroke himself using her tight, warm centre. She grasped his neck, her hand on his back. For a moment, he froze. His scars. His scars, she would feel his scars, but she kept moving, kept lifting her hips, pulling at him, her hands on his buttocks, pulling him deeper, the heat rising in her, so much that he met her hips with his own, grinding, harder and harder until he could feel the tightness getting wetter, convulsing, her voice rising in pain, in pleasure. _

_And he was lost in his own release. _

_He lay over her in his dream, glancing at her face, her eyes dark brown now, her lips swollen. _

_His arms shook, his body spent, his breath laboured, his desires satisfied. _

_And when she touched him again, he knew. _

_This had not been a dream. _


	9. The Missing

_Claire read the letter again, grinning up at her Uncle. “You won! You won Best Archaeological Book!”_

_Uncle Lamb shrugged, and brought the tea tray to the table. “Put that away.”_

_“But- “Claire looked at him, mouth open, as he poured the first cup. “Don’t you want to know when the ceremony is?”_

_He chuckled, “It doesn’t matter,” he said, placing a cup before her. “I’m not going.”_

_“Uncle Lamb,” Claire was firm, “This is from the British Archaeological Society. How can you ignore this?”_

_“I don’t write for awards, Girl,” he said, grunting a little as he sat heavily in his chair. _

_Claire sat stirring her tea for a few minutes. Finally, she looked over at her Uncle._

_“Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” she said firmly. “If I’m ever lucky enough to get an award from the British Archaeological Society for anything I’ve done, wild horses wouldn’t stop me from being there to receive it.”_

She kept sliding off the back of the massive animal, much to Jamie’s amusement. They had to stop so he could sit Claire in the saddle first, then he swung up behind her, wedging her arse tight between his thighs, covering them both with his plaid. His reaction was immediate. Claire chuckled, feeling the same. 

“We must go,” Jamie had whispered that morning, breath hot in her ear as his slipped himself inside her. She came again, quickly, so long alone, so often dreaming of this Viking, her Viking, that the merest touch from him set her aflame. She returned his pleasure by using her mouth, making him gasp, clutch at her hair, confusion warring with desire, wanting her to stop because it felt sinful but pressing her closer because it felt so good. 

She rested her head against his chest, the sway of the animal lulling them into companionable silence.

“And ye’re sure that’s the only way,” Jamie said quietly, his voice low, contemplative, serious.

“I am. And he seemed to think so, too. He’s a brilliant historian. You read his theories. There is only one way to save the Highland culture and the people that would be foolproof. But anything less wouldn’t have the same effect. Wouldn’t stop the war cold in its tracks.”

“Ye’ve a funny way of talking, mo nighean donn. Ye must be careful when we get to where we’re goin’. Say very little, aye?”

“I will,” she promised. 

Minutes passed, Jamie deep in thought.

“’Tis treason,” he said firmly.

“Yes. I know it’s dangerous.” She squeezed his thigh, rubbed it gently. “Have you decided who?”

“Aye,” he said. “There’s only one man who would take the responsibility in the hopes of rising in the Prince’s eyes. It must be Dougal.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered for the hundredth time. “I truly am. If there was another way…” she let the sentence drift off.

“Never ye mind, Claire. It will be fine. I’ll make it so.” He tightened his arms around her. “But first we need to find ye something more suitable to wear. Ye look verra bonny in yer…this is what passes for a dress in yer time?” He frowned at Claire’s nod. “Looks more like a shift, but still we must find ye something proper, and warmer.” 

They rode back towards the war, carefully looking for the right place to stop, where there would be hospitality without suspicion. In the end, they happened upon a village, burnt out by the British, deserted, a shell of itself. After searching through the empty homes, they found one farther out with little damage, and a trunk of clothes. He helped her with the layers as best he could, giggling and laughing through the process as Claire refused the corset, Jamie insisting until she agreed to bring it but not wear the ‘torture device’ while she rode the horse. He tied the bum roll for her, playfully grabbed at her thighs as she tied the stockings, looked her over with a critical eye when she was fully dressed, announced ‘ye’ll do well enough’. 

He found a chicken wandering the yard, caught and killed it. They ate that night, satisfying one hunger while building up another. 

They slept in the cottage, feeling its ghosts, banishing them with their lovemaking. Jamie was unable to stop himself from being with her, the feeling addictive as she rocked over him, his mouth on her breast, suckling, pulling, his hands gripping her arse, watching their joining, watching her grind herself against him, her pleasure building, her face flushed with arousal, unable to stop himself from wanting to come inside of her again and again. He felt the guilt of them not being married, the sin of fornication, praying God would forgive him, at the same time reminding God that He sent him this rare woman that he would love, and love well for the remainder of his time. It was war, after all. Their plan could fail. 

Claire felt no such guilt, finding Jamie to be the man of her dreams, literally and figuratively. She felt empty until he filled her, his cock hard, her body screaming for release, wanting him again and again, urging him to drive into her until she shattered, the sound of her climax keening from her lips, her body tired, spent, muscles sore, twitching, but craving him so much that it woke her from the deepest slumber, compelling her to crawl over him again, wet, ready, taking him in her hand, sliding him inside her even before he was fully awake. 

It was a lust, a love, a desire, a passion, a need, a connection that transcended time and space and brought them together, first in dreams, then in the flesh. 

They rode closer towards war, Jamie’s body becoming tenser, Claire’s becoming more hunched in the saddle. Finally, they crested a hill where she could see rows upon rows of tents, one manor house, one small cottage. There was mud everywhere, trampled grass, the canvases rippling in the wind, fires burning, shots being fired. Men, so many men and boys everywhere.

Not one woman. 

“Jamie,” she turned in the saddle, looking up at him with huge eyes. 

“Ye need not be scairt, Claire, as long as I’m with ye.” He spared her a glance as he looked over the field.

“And when you’re not with me?” She shuddered.

“I’ll keep ye safe. Just–” he hesitated. “Just dinna say anything. Remember, ye’re English in a place where that’s not a pretty thing to be.”

Jamie nudged the horse, headed toward the manor house. He slid off, helped Claire down, gave the reins to a young lad to look after his mount. He took Claire inside, climbing a back staircase to his room. It was sparse. A pallet on the floor, blankets, low fire burning.

Jamie dropped his saddlebags, went over to the window. “I’ve a war council to attend. In the meantime, I will set Dougal out to scout for the British army, bring back news of their position. I will tell the Prince that I’ve seen my family and that Lord Lovat’s men are on their way. He’ll believe me.”

“But I thought you said Dougal would be a good choice to – “

Jamie cut her off, “Aye. I did, and I still do. But I must be the one to put the plan in motion. With Dougal out of the way, it will look less suspicious later. Trust me, mo nighean donn.”

Claire reached into her pocket, handed Jamie a vial. “You know what to do, right?” 

“Aye,” he nodded. “In the meantime, stay put. I will tell His Highness that I’ve brought back my wife.” Claire’s eyebrows rose high onto her forehead. 

“Dinna fash,” he said softly, brushing the backs of his fingers across her jaw, then cupping her neck, “Telling him I’ve a wife will keep the other men away from ye. I’ll say ye followed me from Lallybroch until I had no choice but to bring ye along. I’ll tell him ye’ll help in the field hospital. It’s yon wee cottage.” He pointed to the low stone building with a thatched roof. “Ye can manage in there, can ye, no?”

“Yes,” Claire nodded. “It will provide what we need.” 

“Good,” Jamie said. “I’ll be back.” He kissed her quick, strode to the door, turned back, shook the vial. “Ye’re sure it will work?”

“Positive,” Claire said firmly.

He nodded, left quickly, shutting the door hard behind him.

The war council was a constant stream of arguments about strategy, men posturing, plotting, planning, trying to gain the Prince’s favour. Jamie was usually silent throughout these meetings until he was asked for his opinion, so it was easy for him to move about the room, take the vial from his sporran, pour it into a cup of wine, pass it to the Prince. He passed more cups to more men, and they did the same, everyone serving the Prince at one time or another, just as Jamie had hoped. 

When they were getting ready to retire, Dougal arrived with news of the British army’s position, the Prince rising to kiss Dougal’s cheek, praising his efforts, calling for wine to celebrate this brave man’s successful mission. Jamie smiled as he raised a glass, seemingly for his uncle, but in truth for himself, for Claire, for the lives they would save. 

Later, asleep in his room, his long body curled around Claire, the naked length of her pressed against him, warm and satiated, the pounding on the door woke them both. The Prince was ill, Jamie needed to come immediately. He dressed quickly, his eyes speaking silently to Claire what he could not say aloud lest they be overheard. 

He arrived at the Prince’s quarters, His Highness weak, sweating, clutching his side as cramps tore at his body. Jamie moved around the room listening as the other clansmen spoke softly among themselves, all of them wondering if the Prince was poisoned, who could have done it. Jamie quietly suggested that perhaps they set a guard on the Prince’s personal supply of wine, offering Dougal as a trustworthy choice. They agreed, nodding, feeling proud of their efforts to protect their Prince, giving Jamie the excuse he needed to use his Uncle, offering just enough authority to keep Dougal content, but not enough to allow him to grab for more. The barrel of wine was tested, deemed fit, Dougal set to the task.

Claire went to work in the field hospital in the morning, mostly silent, nodding when given instructions, saying ‘aye’ once in a while in a fake Scottish accent, but saying nothing more lest she give herself away. She washed bandages, wincing at the blood in the water, thinking of the diseases she was exposing herself to, using sticks to stir, to pick up the bandages, wrapping her hands in cloths when she touched chamber pots, clothes from the dead that needed burning but instead were washed, used again, perpetuating disease around the camp, continuing these tasks day in, day out.

For this was the knowledge that Claire had shared with Jamie, the knowledge of disease, of germs. It’s what she discovered late at night in the library, revealed during her research. Taking the information, she interpreted it, considered how it could be used to stop the Battle of Culloden, to halt the destruction of the Clan way of life. 

Dr. Randall’s notes were clear. For the rebellion to be stopped, Prince Charles Stuart had to die. Without a Prince to rally around, Clan leaders would have no reason to fight. Their “King Across the Water” was not inclined to leave his comfortable life to fight for a throne he knew he could not win. With the Prince dead, who would claim the throne for King James if they did fight? 

Frank had also written about the horrible conditions, using a tiny throwaway line that resonated with Claire, _“whichever lives Dysentery didn’t claim, the battle on the moor would”_. The sickness was rampant, a common cause of death in the 1800s, more so during times of war, where lack of hygiene was the biggest cause. Keeping this in mind, Claire had brought with her one thing. A vial of liquid laxative that would render the Prince indisposed, weakened, the final bacteria to be provided here. Multiple times a day Claire would empty chamber pots. She would watch Dougal, wait for him to sleep, wander off to pee, search for food. Once a day she would slip away unnoticed, would empty waste into the barrel that provided the Prince’s wine.

It took six days. Six days to take the Prince’s life. 

The Clan Chiefs were stunned, the army confused. Jamie had quietly told the Lallybroch men to go home, starting the exodus that many other men would join. The ragtag army began to leave the camp, desert the cause, abandon their tents, go home to their families. 

Dougal MacKenzie raged at his fellow soldiers, calling for unification, loyalty, honour, to not abandon the Will of God. His pleas were lost in the wind, swept across the moor, falling deaf on the ears of men who were starved, sick, tired, lonely. He could not live with the outcome. Dougal’s dream of a Scottish, Catholic King would not be denied. He pulled out his sword, came at the men, crazed, enraged at the Clan Chiefs who would not stand and fight, swinging wildly, angrily, until finally he was cut down by his nephew, silenced forever.

The Cause was lost, the war over. When the British found the camp four days later, it was empty, abandoned, neglected. 

_The lab was not a crime scene. She told herself that over and over as she sifted through Claire’s things, each meticulous note found, each drawer searched, looking for something, anything, that might tell her where Claire had gone. Geillis had moved on to a pile of books in the corner of the lab while the news played in the background repeating the same facts over and over…._

_“The Oxfordshire native was the niece of world renowned Archaeologist, the late Dr. Quentin Lambert Beauchamp…was given custody of Claire Beauchamp when she was a child, her parents having been killed in a car accident when she was just five years old…Following in her uncle’s footsteps, Dr. Claire Beauchamp became an Archaeologist, specializing in Viking Weaponry…she was recently working on the site of the Battle of Culloden in conjunction with The University of the Highlands and Islands. She is the only archaeologist who had been given permission to do so, the site being sacred and an important part of Scotland’s history…The University’s Head of the Archaeology Department reported that she’d made another amazing discovery, but refrained from saying what it was because “hopefully Dr. Beauchamp will be back soon. We’d hate to take away from her work. She should be the one to present it to the world.”…no leads at present…Anyone with information about Dr. Claire Beauchamp are to call the police straight away.”_

_Geillis flipped through multiple reference books tossing them to the side, until she came upon a diary jammed in the centre of one thick tome. Claire’s handwriting, sharp, slanted, familiar. She read a few lines, gasped. She turned pages furiously, astounded at what she saw. Sketches, notes about magic stones, dates, times, interspersed with what could only be described as love letters. Love letters to a dead 18th Century Viking. Geillis’ blood ran cold, her spine tingling, sweat running down her neck, under her collar, making her shiver. Her friend had gone mad. That had to be it because the alternative was impossible. The alternative could not be. She gripped the diary tight, looked over at the statue with eyes bathed in tears. _

_“Where are you, Claire? Where the hell are you?”_


	10. The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came together because of the amazing @missclairebelle who, late one night, helped me work out what didn’t make sense, and how to structure this finale.

_In the end, The British Archaeological Society awarded the Best Archaeological Project to Dr. Claire Beauchamp, in conjunction with the University of The Highlands and Islands, for her original approach in combining the fine arts with science. Her idea of creating a life sized sculpture based on a digital image using skeletal remains found on Culloden Moor resulted in a visual representation of an 18th Century Highland Warrior the likes no one had ever seen before. _

_During the awards night, Geillis Duncan collected the honour on Claire’s behalf, saying, “The Claire I knew would never have missed this. She held this Society in the highest regard. The Claire I knew would never purposely miss the opportunity to thank you all.” _

_After the speech, many commented on Ms. Duncan’s turn of phrase, suggesting the Claire she knew was no longer. Many assumed it was her grief talking, and offered their wishes for Dr. Beauchamp’s safe return. Geillis acknowledged their condolences with a cold stare. _

_Ten years after her disappearance Dr. Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp was officially declared dead. _

_Mrs. Graham was interviewed many times over the years, her story never wavered, her answers always clear, concise, consistent. She’d gone out to Craigh na Dun with her friends, as she did on every pagan feast. When she returned home she made breakfast for her guest. When her guest didn’t come down, she brought it to her room, knocked, left it outside the door. An hour later, it was still there, untouched. She’d knocked again, opened the door, Dr. Beauchamp was gone. She went about her day, thinking nothing was amiss until she didn’t come back. That’s when she called the police._

_Ten years later, the will was read. The date of it was curious, being a week before Claire went missing, leaving many to think that had been her intention._

_Dr. Frank Randall was interviewed by the police immediately following Claire’s disappearance. He shared with them how Dr. Beauchamp seemed obsessed with her subject, how she had been single minded in her research, the changes in her appearance during their meetings, going so far as to theorize that she might have been terminally ill, and perhaps left knowing she was going to die. At that time, Dr. Randall was quite upset._

_What Dr. Randall didn’t share ten years later was that he had found Claire in a history book. While doing research in Boston he happened upon a publication about nurses during the American Revolution. It cited a Claire Fraser of North Carolina as a source for training women on sanitation methods during war. The name gave him chills. He dug deeper, found a book in the archives written by a Dr. Claire Elizabeth Fraser of North Carolina. His hands shook as he turned the fragile pages, the botanist’s notes jumping off the page at him, her handwriting familiar. He had an assistant scan one of Claire’s letters from an old file, email it to him so he could compare. There was no doubt. _

_She detailed her methods of healing using herbs, oils, ointments, most of them tested on her husband._

_James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser. _

_He knew that name. It was the Viking he’d found for her. The Viking from the Rising of ’45. 1745. _

_Frank Randall had closed his eyes, swayed, fell back in his chair. His body shook, his mind rejecting even the merest possibility that this was real, that Claire Fraser was Claire Beauchamp. Time travel did not exist. At least that’s what he thought until he read about the date of her will. Until he’d met with Geillis and they’d compared notes._

_Ten years later, when Dr. Beauchamp was officially declared dead, reporters showed up at his office, asked for a comment. Frank acknowledged their questions with a cold stare. _

While the British patrols on the Scottish never went away, they became less aggressive. With the rebellion dying along with the Prince there were no clearances, no arrests, no executions. The British had no need to punish the Scots since they ‘surrendered’, only to take what they wanted when they passed through, sometimes food, sometimes a horse, oftentimes bottles of whisky.

Jamie and Claire made their way to Lallybroch, stopping only to wed properly in a church, needing to be husband and wife before meeting Jamie’s sister, Jenny. They rode up into the yard, cold, wet, hungry, thin, exhausted. 

Jenny was shocked to find her brother had a wife, an Englishwoman, a Sassenach, but after a while she didn’t mind her Englishness so much. They found her mannerisms strange, endearing, lovely. Jenny was especially curious about the black ‘bracelet’ that perpetually circled Claire’s wrist, that held her riotous curls tightly, securely, with nary a pin. Claire made them adopt different habits, like washing their hands often, eating greens, brushing their teeth with willow twigs, drinking boiled water. Claire was odd, but she loved Jamie, that much was clear. Her brother was equally in love, ridiculously so, the noises coming from the Laird’s bedroom proof of that.

The winter was hard, but they were together in the family home. In the spring potatoes were planted as per Claire’s instructions, Jamie explaining quietly to Jenny that his wife had ‘the sight’ and to do as she said. A potato cellar was dug, fields prepared, farm life continued.

Claire relished every day in her 18th Century home. She marveled over the tools, plows, swords, dirks, pistols of the time, awed at the ability to hold them casually in her hands. She stared at people until Jamie nudged her, looking for their Viking genes, cataloguing the structures of their features, forever an archaeologist. 

In her new life she found a new calling, studying botany, begging Jamie to send for books on plants, their uses, spending hours in the apothecary in town, this new obsession born in the wake of death, the desire to heal life instead of take life regardless of how necessary it was, to atone for her sin of murder.

A year after Culloden they left Lallybroch, as the English still hunted Jamie off and on. Even though he managed to stay hidden, he knew that one day he would have to leave if he was to keep his sister and her family safe. They boarded a boat, which Jamie loathed because he suffered from seasickness, but did out of necessity, to protect the family, protect Claire, over the sea to the Isle of Skye where he built them a cottage, a home, a new beginning, knowing the English would never bother with the outlying islands. Claire’s one demand was for Jamie to build her a _bathroom_, a private space, with room for a huge wash tub, a fireplace to heat water. 

He continued to find his wife irresistible. It never stopped, the wanting her. They made love with reckless abandon, free of the sin of fornication now that he was properly wed, Jamie spent his days and nights learning everything about his wife’s body, what she liked, what made her squeak, moan, shatter. Claire spent her days feasting her eyes on her Viking’s body, his wide shoulders, his narrow waist, his flat stomach as he chopped wood shirtless, or pitched hay to the horses. At night she would spread her legs, push his head down between them, seeking pleasure, then she would ride him hard seeking to please him in return. Jamie loved her body during the years she was barren, worshiped it during the years she was pregnant. 

They had a child together, a daughter, then another. 

Their life was hard on the island, isolated, difficult, yet they had each other, needed nothing else. 

It was Claire’s idea to move to America, to protect Jamie from the redcoats forever. Jamie was skeptical, telling Claire he would need a mountain if he were to live as a man. She smiled softly, easily promising him such a place. They took their daughters, settled in North Carolina, Claire feeling the peace that stole over him as he looked out over the blue ridges, the resemblance to Scotland giving him what he needed in order to breathe.

Years later, on a southern summer night in bed, holding his wife close, Jamie whispered, “Thank ye, Sassenach.”

“For what?” she said, arching her back to look at him full in the face, those blue eyes her beacon, her tether. She rested her hand on his strong jaw like she had done so many times before, when he was nothing but clay, then flesh.

“For finding me, my bones. For coming to me, through the stones. For rescuing me, from the war.” He gave her that half smirk that she used to see in her dreams.

She kissed him, softly, reverently, her tears silent, drifting over their lips. “Thank you,” she whispered, “for believing in me enough to be at Craigh na Dun, trusting me when I stumbled through the door of the cottage mumbling my nonsense.”

“Not nonsense, never nonsense,” he said, pushing a curl behind her ear, running a finger down the column of her neck, cupping her breast. “Ye saved a generation of men, a way of life. Christ, Claire, ye’ve the devil’s own courage, aye? Sometimes when I look at ye, and I think back, the thought of what ye did overwhelms me. Ye saved Scotland, mo nighean donn. _Ye saved Scotland_.”

“I didn’t come for Scotland, Jamie,” she said sincerely, earnestly. “I came for you. Only you.”

“Aye,” he answered, tears gathering on the pale red lashes. “’Twas a miracle.”

They looked at each other in the gathering darkness, each holding on to their memories, to each other, to the realization of how they might not have been, shouldn’t ever have been. 

“_Tha gaol agam ort_, My Woman of Balnain.”

“And I, you, My Viking.”

##  **THE END**


	11. The Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This ficlet is a brief look at the decision that brings Jamie and Claire to the New World from the Isle of Skye. Part of the One Quote, One Shot, Book 2 Challenge.

_“But how come the bones are still there?” she asked him. _

_He huffed impatiently. “Some bones become encased in sediment so quickly they become fossils. Air gets shut out, so decomposition can’t occur. You know this, Girl.” He spared a quick glance at his niece’s face. She was deep in thought, her brow furrowed. The heat of the day had pressed damp curls to the back of her neck. He refocused on his work. _

_“So, Uncle Lamb,” she asked quietly, moments later. “If I dug up Mummy and Daddy, would their bones be fossils?”_

_His hand slowed in its work. He waited a bit, then put down the soft brush he was holding. This child had come to him after his brother’s death, much like the broken piece of pottery he was trying to unearth. The shell of her resembled a little girl, but the cracks showed, and the pieces were barely held together. Over the years he thought he’d done a good job of putting her back together, of repairing her, but it seemed that her heart was still empty. _

_“We never dig up the ones we love, Claire. We let them rest in peace. We already know their history, we understand them. There is no need to disturb them.” He lifted a curl away from her skin. _

_She nodded, picked up his brush, and took over his work with care. _

_He sat back, and let her. _

Claire watched as he carried the small pine box on his shoulder, watched as friends filed in behind him for the funeral march, their clothes dark, their cheeks tear-stained. Head bent, back bowed, he single-handedly brought his child to the gaping hole in the rocky earth, its final resting place. 

It was the third death this month.

Life was hard on the Isle of Skye, and the community was small. Carving out an existence here was difficult. There was fishing, of course, and some sheep farming, but other than that food was difficult to come by, especially in the winter. Claire worked hard to grow enough in her garden to sustain them over the colder months. She knew how to preserve her food, to keep it from spoiling. She even went so far as to grow greens inside the cabin, much to Jamie’s pride and confusion. Pots of lettuce, tomatoes, and scallions flourished in the boxes he built her, the ones she tended with as much love and care as she did her own children.

They were lucky. Their daughters were growing up strong, thanks to her knowledge of health, and nutrition. Claire boiled water, scrubbed clothes, kept the house clean, placed food, like dried beans and nuts, in tight jars. She kept bags, filled with flour and oatmeal, high up on shelves where the mice and insects were less likely to find them easily. 

Other families, other children were not so lucky. 

Claire moved closer to Jamie, felt the warmth of his arm as he snaked it around her waist and drew her closer to his side. The girls huddled in front of their parents, Faith burying her face under her Da’s coat away from the biting wind. Brianna had her arms wrapped around Claire’s legs, trying to use her long woolen skirt as a shield. They hid their faces as the pine box was lowered into the hole, Faith placing her hands over her ears so as not to hear the keening wail of the distraught mother that was so loud it drowned out the whistling of the wind.

Jamie untangled himself from his family to help shovel the soil back over the wee bairn. Claire quietly ushered her girls down the long path home. 

Dinner was a quiet, somber affair. Claire bathed her daughters, braided their hair before the fire while Jamie read to them, then tucked them into bed.

When he returned Claire was abed, breathing deeply. He banked the fire, undressed, and knelt on the floor next to her. He made the sign of the cross, offered his heartfelt prayers to God. He gave thanks for the miracle that was his wife, for his bairns, and for their lives. He asked God to watch over the MacConaha family, and for the soul of their newly departed child. He recited an Our Father, a Hail Mary, and a Glory Be, crossed himself again, then slid into bed, gathering Claire into his arms. With a deep sigh, he closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep. 

_She was cold. The kind of cold that seeped into her spine, held her frozen. _

_It was dark, damp. The earth was heavy above her, pressing her into the depths of her own grave. As she felt the dirt shifting above her, she tried to shout for it to stop. _

_Fear crippled her; she knew what was happening. She was to become a specimen in someone else’s museum. _

_Pinpricks of light appeared between the clumps of soil. Her mouth worked in an effort to say something, anything to stop the process of being exhumed. _

_Every bit of her was paralyzed. Her limbs, her voice. She could only watch helplessly as the light became brighter, as her features were exposed little by little. _

_And with one final swish of the brush she could see the person who disturbed her tomb._

_Uncle Lamb. _

She sat bolt upright, the echoes of her scream reverberating around the wooden cottage. She was out of breath, her heart hammering in her chest as if she’d run a marathon, sweat beading on her forehead. She kicked furiously at the covers, needing to escape the confines of her bed. 

“Mo nighean donn.” 

His voice, firm and sure in the darkness, pulled her from the nightmare, anchoring her in life. In this past life. Her present. She stopped struggling, took a deep, shuddering breath, then exhaled slowly. 

**“I’m sorry,”** she **whispered. “I was dreaming about…about…”**

**He patted **her** back, and reached under the pillow for a handkerchief. “I know. Ye were calling his name.” He sounded resigned. **

He rose from the bed. She heard his bare feet cross the pine floor, heard the sloshing of liquid, and then a cup was being pressed into her hand. She could smell the strong aroma of Jamie’s homemade whisky.

“Drink,” he said softly, then turned away to dampen the cloth with the water in the pitcher by their basin. He returned, sat beside her, and gently dabbed the back of her neck, wiped at the perspiration along her temple. 

“It felt like I was frozen,” Claire said, taking a sip and grimacing at the taste. “I was trying to scream, but nothing was coming out.”

Jamie chuckled. “Sassenach, ye almost brought the house down with yer caterwaulin’. I’m surprised the girls aren’t tumbling down the stairs in a fright.”

He shifted on the bed, gently pushing her hair back from her forehead. “Can ye tell me what it was about?”

She looked at her husband, his earnest face, his concerned eyes. “I was being exhumed.”

“By yer Uncle,” Jamie said, running the cloth across her collarbones. 

“It’s just because of the funeral,” she said, trying to dismiss the dream. “It upset me more than I realized, I guess.”

“Aye. Was a sad day, to be sure.” Jamie pushed the shift off her shoulder, bathed the top of her breast. “But sad enough that ye’d dream of your own grave being disturbed by yer beloved Uncle? What’s really amiss, Claire?”  
  


He stilled his ministrations, stared deeply into her eyes. 

“I was thinking,” she admitted softly, “as I was braiding the girls’ hair, that if I died here, and was buried, would there be a time, in the future, when Uncle Lamb might excavate and could possibly discover us. Or me, and never realize it.”

Jamie was always nervous when Claire spoke of the future. Well, his future, her past. He didn’t understand it, the magic that brought her to him, and so he was fearful that it would one day take her away from him. 

“And why would yer Uncle be disturbing the ground here, on the Isle of Skye?” 

She shrugged. “I dug in Scotland. Who’s to say something wouldn’t bring him here?” 

He rose from the bed pretending he needed to rinse out the cloth. In truth, he didn’t know what to say. The sound of the water being rung from the handkerchief filled the room, the light splashing sounds as the droplets hit the surface might as well have been a gong booming. 

“Do ye ever dream of going back, Claire?” he asked, his voice cracking on her name.

He turned to face her, to face her answer, and saw that she had removed her shift. Her pale skin glowed in the embers of the banked fire, gooseflesh along the parts he’d bathed. Her hair was a long, dark slash of braid across one shoulder. Her amber eyes glowed like fire as she looked at him.

“Never,” she said simply. “Not ever.”

He dropped the cloth and returned to the bed, the mattress giving way under his weight. The sheets rustled in the silence of the house as Jamie’s hand traveled down her arm, across her hip, over the softness of her tummy. The nub of his knuckle rubbed teasingly between her thighs, gently at first, almost shyly. His mouth fastened onto her breast, the nipple already raised. His wife sighed in a sound so beautifully satisfying, he groaned in response. 

Their mouths fused, he shifted his body, settling onto his side as she spread her legs to give him more access. 

His mouth dragged across her cheek, lips resting against her temple as he slowly slid his finger inside her, stroking slowly, but firmly. Claire could feel her body begin to quiver at his ministrations. She gripped his shoulder, raised her hips in keeping with his rhythm. 

Her small hand travelled down his back, across his buttock, then slid around to cup him. Wrapping her fingers around his hardness, she began a slow movement at first, from root to tip.

Jamie closed his eyes in ecstasy, savoring the feel of her bringing him to the edge, relishing the feel of her pulsing against his fingers. He slid his hand free of her, and in one smooth move, rolled himself between her legs, and pushed himself inside of her. 

Claire’s back arched up off the bed as she took him in. She held tight to him, legs locked high up on his hips, arms above her head, hands braced against the headboard. They moved together then, eyes locked on each other, the sadness of the day being washed away, along with the fear of death and abandonment. 

Jamie stirred, hours later, in the shadows of their bed. “Ye’re a wonder, Sassenach,” he whispered. 

Claire rolled over to face him across the pillow. “How so?”

“Ye keep death from our door.” The look in Jamie’s piercing blue eyes startled her.

“I do nothing of the sort,” she challenged, feeling uneasy about his statement. 

“Aye. Ye do. Yer wee herbs, makin’ us eat disgusting plants all the time.” He shifted forward to kiss her lightly on the lips. “We bathe more than other folk, boil our water, and brush…our…teeth.”

Claire giggled as Jamie enunciated the last three words, the concept still foreign to him after all these years. 

“Covering that child with the earth alongside her Da made me mindful. Ye keep the bairns alive, Claire. Ye saved me. We escape the tribulations that other families face.” His large hand rose in the darkness, and cupped the back of her neck. “I would not have this life, all of this life, without ye,” he whispered against her lips. 

He kissed her softly, settled her against him, the warmth of their lovemaking still lingering on her flesh. 

“This life,” Jamie spoke against her skin, “here in our bed. This is the life I give thanks tae God for. Thanks be I’m able to love ye, and love ye well.” 

He closed his eyes, letting the weariness from day’s events pull him into a deep sleep.

_Jamie dreamed of the ocean, an expanse of blue under an unrelenting sun. The waves should have caused his stomach to flip and his head to ache. He saw instead his wife and children against the railing of the great ship, saw himself watching them from inside a cabin, feeling perfectly fine._

_He saw Bree’s red hair streaming in the wind, Faith’s blonde curls bouncing in the sunlight, a few of Claire’s dark ringlets springing free to dance around her neck despite being bound tightly against the elements. _

_The New World. America. _

_He saw mountains, and cliffs. Enormous trees, and an even bigger sky. _

_A place where archaeologists didn’t excavate in their search for ruins, didn’t disturb the bones of loved ones. _

_A place where there were no fairy hills or standing stones, where he couldn’t lose his wife, where she wouldn’t be tormented by an uncertain future. _

_A place where he could start over without the redcoats hunting him down, or vex his sister. _

_He was no stranger to the messages in his dreams. He would listen to them now, just as he had before Claire came to him. In that fragile consciousness between dream and waking, when the early light and morning sounds began to punctuate his mind, Jamie knew what he must do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to @missclairebelle and @balfeheughlywed for not only being good and decent friends, but for being the best betas ever. 


End file.
